I blinked back tears as I stared at my reflection. No, I wouldnt fall apartnot in my own flat, where no one had the right to push me out.
Whod have thought six years of marriage to Oliver would end like this? We were the perfect coupleor so all our friends said. A cosy flat in central London, a gift from my parents for my twenty-fifth, our holidays together, nights curled up watching telly I remembered Dads warning before the wedding:
“Emily love, well put the flat in your name only. Not that I dont trust Oliver, but you never know.”
Id brushed it off. I truly believed our love would last forever.
“Emily Carter, are you hiding in there?” A sharp voice cut through the bathroom door. I straightened my hair, squared my shoulders. No way was I letting Olivers new whatever she was see me broken.
“Coming,” I said, swinging the door open.
In the hall stood a polished blonde in her thirtiesdesigner suit, heels, flawless makeup. No wonder Oliver had fallen for her. She was everything I wasnt: all sharp edges where I was soft.
“Amelia Thompson,” she said briskly. “Olivers solicitor. Were here to discuss your eviction.”
“My eviction?” A bitter laugh escaped me. “From my own flat?”
Amelia tilted her head. “Oliver claims this is jointly owned property.”
Now I really laughed. “Did he forget to mention my parents bought this flat for me before we married? That its only in my name?”
A flicker of doubt crossed her face.
I remembered how it all startedOliver coming home late, barely speaking. Blaming work. Id given him space, thinking it was temporary.
“Ive got all the paperwork,” I said calmly. “Want to see?”
“No need.” She pulled out her phone. “Ill call Oliver.”
As she stepped away, I sank onto the sofa. Memories flooded backthe night Oliver came home sober, said we needed to talk. Id just made his favourite roast.
“Separatings best,” hed said, avoiding my eyes. “Im filing for divorce.”
I hadnt made a sceneMum raised me to keep my dignity. Id filed first, beating him by days.
Amelia ended the call. Her confidence had vanished. “Theres been a misunderstanding. Oliver wasnt entirely clear about the property.”
“You mean he lied?” I stood. “Classic Oliver. Always rewriting history.”
She shifted awkwardly. “Apologies for the trouble.”
“Not your fault,” I said, opening the door. “Thoughword of advice? Watch Oliver. Today its evicting his wife. Tomorrow”
I didnt finish, but her eyes told me she understood. When the door shut, my knees buckled.
The phone rangOliver. “What was that stunt?” he snapped. “Humiliating Amelia?”
“Me? Humiliated? Sending your girlfriend to chuck me out isnt humiliating?”
“Shes my solicitor!”
“Who just happens to share your bed?”
Silence. Then: “Ill still get my share in the divorce.”
“What share? The flats mine. You sold the car last year. Whats left?”
“Our joint account”
“With my money,” I cut in. “Or forgot youve lived off my salary while building your business?”
More silence. I could practically hear him scrambling.
“You know,” I said slowly, “I used to wonder how you fooled everyone. Now I get ityou believe your own lies. You actually think you deserve this flat?”
“Em, lets not”
“Exactly. Lets not.” I hung up.
A week later, I tried to distract myself with work. On Friday, I walked through Hyde Parktime to move on. Leaves crunched underfoot until familiar laughter made me freeze. Twenty metres away, Oliver and Amelia held hands, deep in conversation.
“Not his solicitor, then?” I muttered, throat tight. They didnt see me. I turned down a path, legs carrying me home.
That evening, wine in hand, I stared at the city lights. A knock cameAmelia, now in joggers, hair in a messy bun.
“Can we talk?” she asked softly. Inside, she confessed: “The evictionI didnt know. Oliver said you were difficult. That the flat was half his.”
“Of course he did.”
“I ended things today. He called, said hed made a mistake”
I snorted. “And you believed him?”
“No. Thats why Im hereto warn you. Hell come crawling back.”
She was right. Next evening, Oliver stood there with lilies. “Em, I messed up. Lets start fresh.”
“What about Amelia?”
“A fling. Nothing more.”
“Six months is some fling.”
His face darkened. “Were you spying?”
“Hardly. Funny thingI overheard Amelia telling a friend how shed played you. Used you to try and grab my flat.”
“Youre lying!”
“Am I? You always believe what suits you.”
The divorce was quick. Oliver didnt showjust some junior solicitor droning through paperwork. Outside court, I called Mum.
“Its done.”
“Love, how are you?”
“Better than expected,” I said, smiling. “Signed up for interior design courses. Always wanted to.”
I made the flat minenew paint, furniture, curtains. Friends said I seemed brighter. Over coffee, my mate Sarah nodded: “Youve changed. More sure of yourself.”
“Learned something important,” I said. “Trusts earned, not given blindly.”
Months passed. My design Instagram grew. One evening, I bumped into Amelia.
“Emily,” she called. “I wanted to thank you. What you said made me realiseI was using him too. You showed me how ugly that was.”
“Glad it helped,” I said honestly.
At home, I watched London glow. This flat wasnt just a gift anymoreit was proof I could stand on my own. On the sill, a cactus Id bought after the divorce bloomed. Small, prickly, just like melearning to guard its space.
I smiled. The future didnt scare me now. It was mine to shape. And this time, I knewmy happiness depended on no one but me.
